Love Like A Song
by Neon Bible
Summary: After a harsh break up, Mitchie comes to New York to apologize to Alex only to find that the other girl has completely forgotten about her. But people can’t just erase someone from their memory. It’d be like magic... Mitchie/Alex Camp Rock/WoWP crossover.


**Title: **Love Like A Song

**Summary:** After a harsh break up, Mitchie comes to New York to apologize to Alex only to find that the other girl has completely forgotten about her. But people can't just erase someone from their memory. It'd be like _magic_... A Camp Rock / Wizards of Waverly Place crossover. Mitchie / Alex.

**Rating: **T -- for language.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything or anyone, except for the things and the ones that I do own... In other words, all characters that are not original belong to Disney, and you can interpret that any way you like. P.S. The story and subsequently its title was inspired by Demi Lovato's song, _Don't Forget_.

**Feedback: **Yes, please!

**A/N: **The tenses change between viewpoints. Mitchie speaks in the present. Alex speaks in the past. Sentences in italics are thoughts.

* * *

_  
Outside the Waverly Sub Station_

**Mitchie's POV**

I've been pacing outside for a while now, debating whether or not I should go in. I take a few steps toward the door, stop, realize I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to say or if this was even a good idea then turn around and walk away. But every time I do, I change my mind, because no matter how scared I am about it, I still really want to see you, so I've been doing this dance of back and forth for about fifteen minutes now.

It's a good thing I'm in New York because anywhere else people would be concerned if I was lost or crazy; stop me and ask if I need help, and then I'd feel embarrassed to have caused such a scene and end up leaving for good. But here, everyone just assumes I'm crazy and keeps on walking. People here don't even really _look_ at the other people on the street. I did get a few glares and angry sighs when I almost bumped into people as I turned around, but for the most part, I'm non-existent. It's the New York mentality – if you don't know the people around you, they're just part of the scenery – which I guess is why you didn't even notice me when I passed you by...

_  
Inside the Waverly Sub Station_

**Alex's POV**

"Hey..." I said to my parents as I entered the sandwich shop.

But they didn't hear me. They were too busy arguing in the kitchen behind the counter. They must have been really into whatever they were talking about because they didn't even notice me as I sat down on a stool directly across from them.

I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but the glassless window in the wall dividing us framed them like a TV screen, so it was kind of like watching reality TV, and watching reality TV isn't really eavesdropping...

"You have to talk to her," prodded my mom, a concerned look on her face.

"And tell her what? I can't tell her to just leave. She's on the sidewalk. It's public property."

"If she comes in here... What's going to happen when Alex sees her?"

_Sees who? _I looked out the window to try to find who they were talking about, but I couldn't recognize anyone in particular. This one girl locked eye contact with me, but as soon as she did, she sped down the block. _Hm, she was kinda pretty..._

"Nothing's going to happen..." said my dad in a slow, calming voice.

"Nothing?!" My mom must have been really upset by my dad's answer because she started to mumble to herself in Spanish. She then drew a deep breath and said, "Jerry... what is the poor girl going to do when she realizes that Alex doesn't remember?"

"Remember what?" I asked, forgetting that I wasn't a part of the conversation.

"Alex!" greeted my dad, surprised to see me. He walked to the other side of the window. "How was school?"

"Fine..." I replied reflexively.

"Did you and Harper talk to the prom committee about that zombie prom idea?"

My face lit up as I recalled my day's finest moment.

"Yeah! Gigi totally hated it, so then everybody else said that they hated it too, _but _after the meeting, some people told us that they secretly loved it! And now we're all going to the prom dressed as zombies and we're totally gonna learn how to do the Thriller dance."

"Ooh, do you guys want me to teach it to you?" asked my mom, running to my side. "When I was your age, my girlfriends and I would dance to Thriller all the time in front of my bedroom mirror."

She started to do the famous claw-hand moves from the dance. I stood up and tried to mimic her, excited to learn, when I suddenly realized that it was all just a distraction.

"Hey, wait. Don't change the subject! What were you guys talking about?"

"When?"

"Before. When I just got here. You were wondering what some poor girl was gonna do when she realizes that I don't remember something. What don't I remember?"

"Oh, um..." My dad looked around.

"Excuse me," said a woman, with a polite smile, trying to get past my mother and me. We stepped aside to give her room. She threw out her leftovers in the trash bin behind us.

"Oh, um, remember to take out the garbage!" my dad shouted as if he just realized the answer.

"What?" I knitted my eyebrows, confused by his reply. "Which 'poor girl' would care if I don't remember to take out the garbage?"

"Uh... Mindless Madge," my mom offered.

"Who?"

"That crazy homeless woman who squats across the street," my dad explained. "She lives off the leftovers in our garbage."

"Ew," I said in an octave higher than normal.

"Alex!" scolded my mom.

"Sorry! I know it's really sad, but still... Ew."

"That woman is just trying to survive," my dad said defensively. "And she can't do that if you don't remember to provide her with the nourishment she needs."

This whole conversation was getting weirder than my liking. I decided to just go with whatever they wanted, so we'd all stop talking about it.

"Fine, I'll take out the garbage," I said and walked to the back. I took a full trash bag in each hand and started for outside.

"No, wait!" said my mom, stepping in front of me; her hands reaching out to stop me. Her eyes were really wide, which gave me the creeps, more so than the talk about the crazy garbage-eating homeless woman. My mom must have sensed this because she took a step back and smiled. She clasped my arm in a motherly way then addressed me with a calm tone.

"You should wait because... the more you wait, the more leftovers there'll be."

"Yeah..." my dad added. "By the end of the day, it'll be like an all-you-can-eat buffet."

"Okay, ew-_er_." The mental image of a woman gorging on garbage popped into my head. She was gnawing on stale bread and pouring into her mouth rancid, watery mayonnaise, which dribbled from her lips onto her ratty clothes. I thought I'd gag right then and there and probably would have if my mom didn't snap me out of it.

"Why don't you go upstairs, honey?" She took the garbage bags from my hands. "We'll call you down when we're closing up."

"Okay..."

I started up the stairs, but a sudden suspicion within my stomach stopped me midway. I turned around to get one last look at my parents. They had already gone about their own businesses – my mom serving a customer, and my dad searching out the window for God knows what... _More customers, maybe._ It was nothing really out of the ordinary, so I shrugged off my suspicion as a false alarm and continued on my way.

_  
Washington Square Park_

**Mitchie's POV**

_Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god... _These are the only thoughts that race through my mind as I sprint down Waverly Place.

I don't know what happened. I was watching you walk to the counter, sit down... I was admiring your crazy style; the way you just throw clothes together, each a different color, never two the same – your teal tee beneath your yellow tank that hugs you in all the right places; your lilac tights under your short blue patterned skirt that swishes with every step you take; your pink low-cut Chuck Taylors, which you wore the day I first met you; and your funky bangles and bracelets on each arm, each with its own story of how you got it, from spiting a spoiled celebrity brat at a boutique in Chelsea to helping a local vendor raise money to support his family at a marketplace in New Delhi – everything in disarray yet somehow it all works – a concept which can relate to everything about you.

I was pondering this endearing notion, forgetting all the fears I had about meeting you here until I remembered them all in one great instant and started freaking out. My heart suddenly felt like it had dropped into the pit of my stomach. I couldn't breathe as if my lungs had shrunken into themselves. I didn't know what to do. It was like I was having a panic attack. And then you _looked_ at me...

I was staring at you, having a panic attack, and then you _looked _at me!

What was I to do? I was completely spazzing out, so I ran. In fact, I'm still running.

You looked at me and I ran... You looked at me and I _ran_? _Oh god..._ I stop running.

You see me, months after not hearing one word from me, months after I broke your heart... and I ran.

I sit down on a park bench.

_She must think that I really hate her._

I cup my hands over my nose and mouth and breathe deeply into them, as if they were a paper bag. My eyes go wide.

_She thinks that I hate her and now she must be so upset. _An image of you crying alone in your room flashes across my mind._ Oh god, I'm such an asshole..._

I don't realize that I haven't blinked in forever until my eyes start to feel cold and begin to water. I close my hands over my face, moving them up to wipe away the tears from my eyes and then higher to hold the hair from my face.

_Oh god, what am I going to do?_

I lean all the way forward until my head is between my knees. I inhale deeply then sit back again.

_I should call her._

I reach for the phone in my pocket.

_I should call her and apologize._

I search for your number in my address book.

_I should call her and apologize and tell her that I don't hate her. _

I press the call button. The phone rings.

_I should call her and apologize and tell her that I don't hate her, but that I really love her... Wait._

I hang up the phone.

I don't know why I'm hesitating, but I hate myself for it. I nervously rub my thumb over the cell phone screen.

_C'mon, Mitchie... Don't be such a coward._

I find your number again. My thumb hovers over the call button when—

My phone rings.

Its loud polyphonic beeps actually make me jump, I'm so on edge. For a second, I think you're calling me back, having read my number on your caller ID. I read the screen then let out a relieved yet slightly disappointed sigh.

"Hey, Eddie..."

It's my manager, Eddie Styx. He used to be a drummer for a punk band in the early 90s called 'The Dirty Thirty.' They didn't make it very far, but mostly because they didn't want to. They were one of those underground bands who only wanted fans who were real music fanatics – the kind that discovers a band by visiting music venues every week out of the sheer passion for a new sound; not the kind that likes a band just because everyone else told them about it or because they heard the band's song on the radio so many times that it got stuck inside their head. Needless to say, 'The Dirty Thirty' were elitists – perfect for the current hipster crowd (much to their chagrin). They made a couple records, one of which recently turned platinum (thanks to the hipsters, no doubt). The band had mixed feelings about it... Anyway, I met him through Connect 3, whom he also represents.

How can an elitist drummer wind up representing a mainstream pop rock band and an upcoming teen solo artist? Well, the man has to pay the bills somehow...

"Where are you?" he asks in his raspy voice caused from years of cigarette smoking. "Your hour lunch break was over ten minutes ago!"

I look at my watch and internally kick myself. I get up and start walking toward the studio.

"I know. I'm sorry. I got lost," I say, making up an excuse. "The street I was on suddenly turned into another street..."

"Yeah, I know. The Village does that. What are your cross streets? I'll send someone out to get you."

"No, that's okay!" I shout, hating to cause a commotion. "Um, the street turned back to normal again. I'll be there in five minutes."

"Hurry," he says sternly. "Bobby doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Bobby Benton is one of the top producers of all time. He's been in the business for years. Rumor has it that he's the one who gave Jimi Hendrix his first guitar.

"Okay, okay, I'll b—" He hangs up on me before I can finish my sentence.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT! _I think with every hurried step I take. _This day can't get ANY worse!_

Then, as if reading my mind, fate challenges me with a scheming 'Wanna bet?' smirk...

My phone rings again.

And it's you.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. The man walking behind me almost crashes into me. I can tell he's upset because he yells something to me over his shoulder as he continues on, but I can't understand what he's saying. I'm too focused on your name on the screen. Those four letters are barely a centimeter tall, yet they're intimidating enough to make my lungs shrink into themselves again.

Somehow I find myself pressing the call button. I quickly bring the phone to my ear before I can chicken out again.

"Hello?" I barely squeak out.

"Hi..." It's a guy's voice. "I got a call from this number?"

I look at my screen, confused.

_Did I call the wrong number? But this is the number in my address book... Could I have programmed in the wrong number? But I used to call her with this number all the time..._

"Hello?" questions the voice on the other end.

I snap out of my train of thought.

_Maybe it's just one of her friends._

"Yeah, hey... I'm sorry," I begin, nervously playing with the metal guitar pick dangling from my neck. "I was trying to call my friend, Alex? My name's Mitchie..."

"Look. Don't call here again," deadpans the voice on the other end.

"What?" I ask, thrown off. _Who was I talking to? Her brother? Her friend? Her boyfriend?_ "Who is this?"

"It doesn't matter. Just don't call here again."

"Did Alex tell you to tell me that?" Suddenly, all my initial fears wash away and I become instantly filled with the sole need to talk to her.

"You tell her to come to the phone and tell me that herself," I challenge, trying to sound threatening, but the sadness building up inside me just bleeds through.

"Just forget about her, okay?" continues the voice, still calm despite the sudden raise in mine. "It's what's best for both of you."

"I can't just _forget_ her," I say contemptuously, as if he just asked me to stop breathing.

"Why not? She forgot about you."

And then I stop breathing...

"What?" I barely whisper. There's not enough air in my lungs to manage a normal volume.

I desperately listen for some kind of explanation, but it never comes. Instead, there's a huge pause between us; one so long that I start to think that he hung up on me.

"I'm sorry..." he finally says; his voice genuinely full of regret. "I shouldn't have said that..." He inhales deeply as if preparing to say a long speech, but instead, he just lets out a sorrowful sigh. "Just don't call here anymore."

And with that, the line goes dead.


End file.
